"Usually," she replies amicably, and really she wouldn't understand his chagrin. The smell isn't overpowering— it's already fading under the busy attentions of the automatic micromachine network. She doesn't slur, or stumble, those functions corrected automatically by software inimical to the design of her shell, it's only that there's a gentle haze around her perception, nice and dreamy. It doesn't take much to pickle what is essentially a brain in a jar.

"Tell me to leave," her voice is just beside his ear, but she's looking at his screen, reading his files. One hand leaves the comfortable perch along his collarbone to touch a control, to set the display scrolling at a reasonable rate, "Tell me to stop, and I will."